When Sheila found out that Jeanette was pregnant, she and Tala helped get her into the clinic in Alhambra. “You know he turned his back on her when he found out she was pregnant,” she said like an accusation directed at me. “A parent doesn’t do that.” That was her one triumph over Valenti — a feeling of superiority in one aspect of life.

Now they had a baby boy and the scheme was cooked up to bleed money out of Valenti so they could all run off together. Her plan was as equally harebrained as the one Jeanette and Nelson pitched me. I guessed their “home” would be the old one she was forced to leave in Pacoima, but when I asked her where she intended to go, she answered, “Anywhere but here.”

The fantasy life she projected didn’t feel genuine. The words were right but the weight behind them was missing. I felt no love for a young girl or her baby. There was only anger.

“Why did you try to have them killed, Mrs. Lansing?” I stared down at the face in shadow but could glean nothing. “You hate him that much?”

“It’s more than just hate,” she whispered.

Sheila tugged at the quilt keeping the cool night air off her. Even in the shadow I could see how thin and brittle her arms were.

“What a great man with all his success and money and charity,” she said. “The same man who, when he found out I couldn’t have children, tossed me aside like an old dishtowel. After all I did for him. The way he looked at me,” she stammered back to some memory from decades past. “At least an old rag has some use.

“Poor Charlie,” she said, “he tried so hard.” It took me a moment to realize her mind had leapfrogged in time to a second marriage and more precious memories that unfortunately weren’t quite precious enough. She shook her head at that sad realization and was jerked back to the memory that haunted her.

“I knew on that day the only thing Carl cared more about, even more than money, was having a child.” A measure of control returned to her voice. “And that one day I would take from him what he took from me.”

“Jeanette is living with him now,” I told her. “By her own choice. She’s happy.”

I had the urge to cause her pain and those two sentences were the best way to do it. I couldn’t see her face but I knew they had their intended effect. But I didn’t feel good about it. The words came out too easily for my liking. A second urge overcame me and that was to get away from this place as soon as possible.

I stepped back and her face was again illuminated by the outbound traffic. She stared as if hypnotized by the red lights. I looked at her exposed arms, thinner than I ever thought arms could be. I felt cold just looking at her.

I took up the quilt and wrapped it around her shoulders, then left her alone on the balcony to join my own set of taillights heading in the opposite direction.

PAUL MACDONALD

Paul MacDonald is a twenty-year veteran of Corporate America and survives through the writing of the Chuck Restic detective series. He lives with his wife and family in Los Angeles.

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Table of Contents

THE BIG FLAMEOUT

YOUR NAME HERE

ONE CONDITION

THE WEST SIDE

THE GREAT SOCKEYE RUN

A MAN AND HIS PIGS

ENVIRONMENTALISTS AND TEACHERS

MORNING LECTURE

HIGH NOON

NEW HIRE

THE TOURIST TRADE

A WOMAN’S SCREAM

A TIGHT WINDOW

DEAD MAN WALKING

HOGTIED

PROGRESS

SOCIALIZATION

THE SILENT SCREEN

THE FINAL DAYS OF THE GAO LI EMPIRE

EVERYTHING’S ROSES

MAN LEFT IN CAR

A DIFFERENT KIND OF DYING

THE CORNFIELDS

A WOMAN’S LAUGH

NO KIDS

THE INTERVIEW

A FAMILIAR SOUND

BLACK ROCKS

AN ENDLESS SUNSET

PAUL MACDONALD